He was dimly aware of his fingers tapping on the steering wheel, and there was a small part of him, detached from the present, that was glad that there was no one else in the car to be bothered by it.
But that was only a small part of Jack Robinson. The part of him trying to deny that this moment was a significant one. That he was about to make a choice that could potentially change his life.
He could still feel Rosie shaking in his arms, hear her sobs tear through her body, see the top of her head hiding her face from view. It had been years since he'd seen her cry; she kept her emotions hidden behind a blank face whenever possible. It was something he had grown to mimic after the war. As with most of their similarities, it had been fatal to their relationship. It's hard to have an open and honest relationship when both people are constantly wearing poker faces. He used to wish she would let her guard down sometimes, the wish becoming more desperate the more their marriage deteriorated. But seeing it actually happen tonight had made that old, forgotten wish turn sour in his mouth.
But one memory of the evening stuck with him above all: he could remember the exact instant Phryne had left the station. It made him feel like an ass, focusing on the Phryne of it all when his ex-wife, a woman who had been the center of his world for so many years, had just had her life ripped apart. But he had come to learn that his feelings for Phryne, much like the woman herself, were sometimes (often) impossible to negotiate with and refused to be guilted into feeling apologetic about it.
As much as he'd tried to keep his mind on his ex-wife, he hadn't really known what to say or do to make her feel better. A predicament that hadn't been helped by how distracted he had been by wondering what Phryne thought of the situation. What she might assume his holding his ex-wife meant. Whether it bothered her. If she even cared enough to think about it to begin with.
Which was why he was sitting here in his car, and had been for at least twenty minutes. The honest part of him wanted to run in and tell her it didn't mean anything—that he had been comforting Rosie, that was all. But the other part, the careful part, the part that (over)analyzed every possible outcome, the part more conscious of how Phryne viewed her relationships with men, was trying to keep him in the car with the door closed. If he went in, he would be telling her two things—one, that he wanted her to know that he didn't have feelings for Rosie, which said a lot about how he felt about Phryne. Two, that he thought she wanted to know if he had feelings for Rosie, or even that she'd given it any thought whatsoever, which said a lot about how he thought (or at least hoped) she felt about him.
Actually, he would be telling her three things, he realized. The fact that he was here so late proved that he thought telling her was urgent enough that it couldn't wait for morning. Which showed how serious his feelings for her were.
But at this point, did he care? He thought about her hand around his when she had said his heart runs as deep as the Pacific Ocean. Her coy smile when she had invited him for a nightcap after the fashion show. The seemingly endless eye contact between them when he had draped the Abbotsford scarf around her neck. Her closeness just days ago as she had tied his tie for him. She had to have some feelings towards him, right?
Maybe by now, that wasn't even the point. Maybe the point was that he had said nothing for so long that he couldn't say nothing any longer. He had rejected her flirtations so many times. He had even tried to cut her out of his life. Maybe it was his turn to be vulnerable.
Ultimately, what convinced him were his fingers tapping on the steering wheel, reminding him of the simple fact that he was in a car, which made him think of a decidedly different car. A car crashed into a tree, with a dead driver he had thought was his Miss Fisher. He would never forget his drive to the accident; each of those thirty minutes had felt like an eternity. In one of those eternities, he had acknowledged that terrifying thing he'd been hiding from himself—his feelings for her. In another eternity, his terror had slid to the pit of his stomach when he realized that she would never know about those feelings. In the aftermath of finding her alive, he'd been so focused on trying to protect himself from ever feeling the pain of her death again that he'd forgotten to protect himself from feeling the pain of thinking he had lost the chance to tell her he cared. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
He knocked on the door. He briefly considered the late time again. But the light was on inside. Someone, and his gut told him it was Phryne, was still awake. And that was the point, wasn't it? She needed to know how urgent this was to him. He knocked again.
When the door creaked open, he tried not to notice that she was only wearing a dressing robe, and instead focused on the flicker of relief in her eyes. Both facts filled his stomach with something that felt distinctly like fire. He would just have to forbid himself from thinking about which was the bigger contributor.
He didn't need to say anything; she immediately let him in. Being near her made that need to tell her that much stronger, which was fortunate, because seeing her also made him lose his nerve. He waited for her to close the door behind him, not sure how to start this conversation on his own.
She turned to look back at him. "I thought you were with Rosie."
It was his turn to feel relieved. So it had been on her mind.
"I was." But I spent the whole time needing to be here.
He glanced around, checking to see that no one else was around. If he was finally going to tell her, he wasn't going to be interrupted. "Is it too late?" He didn't particularly care—asking was mostly for courtesy's sake, but he figured he might as well emphasize that he knew it was late, so she would realize the significance of what he was about to say.
The pause after he asked made him reconsider if he had been asking about the time. He felt that old poker face come right up.
"Never." His stomach dipped at how firmly she said it. And then flipped again as she approached him. He tried to keep his gaze strictly on her eyes as he fumbled for the words to explain the Rosie situation.
"I've never seen her like that before. She was in shock; she just needed some company." He wasn't sure if he was babbling. For all he knew, he might just be saying, "It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean anything; it didn't mean anything." He momentarily lost control of his gaze, his eyes flickering to her lips.
"She needed you." Phryne said it with such certainty, as if it were backed up by extensive scientific evidence. Like she could personally verify how needed he was, an idea that made his stomach dance again. "Jack Robinson." His full name coming from her lips did what it always did—made his heart feel like it was blushing. How did she make such a common name sound so extraordinary?
"The man who always does the right thing." As much as he'd thought about all of her amazing qualities, he hadn't given much thought to what she thought of him. Hearing that she had such a high opinion... he gave up on his stomach ever settling again. "The noble thing."
That was what finally convinced him of how she felt. The resignation in how she said it, accepting that he was going back to his ex-wife, but wishing he weren't.
"Not always, Miss Fisher." The noble thing, that is. The right thing... She would always be the right thing. He shifted towards her, finally ready to prove it to her, with one kiss, followed by another kiss, followed by kiss after kiss after ki-
"Was that the baby?" Goddamnit, Prudence. He tried to smile politely at Phryne's aunt, but it was possibly the least genuine facial expression he had ever made in his life.
He wondered if she'd been hovering in the other room, listening in, ready to interrupt. She always seemed vaguely disapproving of him. In what universe did a conversation between adults sound like a crying baby?
"Oh. It's very late, Inspector."
Yes, definitely disapproving.
But at this moment, he couldn't have cared less.
"Yes. Yes, it is." Again, that reminder of how late it was. And with it, that reminder that he hadn't even considered the time until he'd arrived outside her house. It was just, as Phryne had put it, the right thing to do. He looked back at the woman in question, searching for the same annoyance with Prudence to be reflected back at him.
He slipped on his professional attitude, hoping it would silence the alarm bells clearly ringing in Prudence's head if she thought he was here purely for business.
"But, I'm glad we cleared up that detail-"
"So am I, Jack. So am I." Phryne's interruption drowned him in that urge to kiss her again. It was confirmation that she had been thinking about Rosie, that she had wanted him to show up to tell her it wasn't true. The relaxed smile on her face was more than enough to convince him that, despite the late hour or because of it, coming here had been the right thing to do.
He wanted to pretend that Prudence wasn't here, that he could just stay in this moment forever, and kiss Phryne and kiss her and kiss her, but Prudence was there in all her disapproving glory. And it was late.
He turned to go, when he heard a baby cry. It took him a moment to put together where the baby had come from. He dimly recalled the pregnant girl from the convent. Of course Phryne had taken her in. Because of course she had.
"It's alright, little man. I'm coming." As Prudence rushed out of the hallway, he silently declared the baby his favorite baby of all time.
In the silence that remained, he could only smile at Phryne. The moment was gone. He wasn't going to kiss her for the first time—the first real time, that is—when Prudence was in the other room. But Phryne knew how he felt. And she felt something too. That was enough for now.
Unsure of what to say, he nodded to her, putting the ball in her court.
"Until our next murder investigation, then."
He mourned the fact that they didn't spend time together in between investigations. He wanted to show up the next morning ("It's very early, Inspector."), skip work, and just be with her, in whatever way she wanted him. But that wasn't them. Not yet.
"I look forward to it." How sad that he wanted Collins to call this instant and tell him another body had been found. "The investigation. Not-not the murder." Did he honestly just stutter? How old was he?
He found himself nodding, just looking at her. And she was nodding as well. Neither of them particularly coherent. He could tell that he was wearing one of the dopiest smiles of his life, but he saw no reason to hide it. That look on her face, the uncertainty and affection and happiness, a look that would never be on Rosie's face, made him almost giddy. Without either of them outright saying anything, they were already more open and honest than he and his ex-wife had ever been. Phryne Fisher would never hide from him. Again, that impulse to skip work the next day...
"Of course." Her whisper sent his stomach on its final flip of the evening.
He turned to leave, and as he opened the door (why on earth was he opening the door?), Phryne stopped it.
"Jack."
He couldn't barely look her in the eyes. Because if he did, he wouldn't be able to wait for the next investigation. He wouldn't even wait for the next morning. He would kiss her here and now, and never leave. No, he couldn't even call her by her first name. That would be admitting how different everything was now between them.
"Miss Fisher."
He stepped out into the night, a smile sliding on his face. And though he couldn't be sure, he imagined that, as she watched his walk back to his car, there was a smile on her face too.